


The Other Candidate

by InkEros (thacmis)



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Charles Being Concerned, Erik is a Sweetheart, Fluffy Ending, I SWEAR TO GOD IT'S A VERY HAPPY ENDING, Illustrations, M/M, PININGGGG, Pining!Charles, Reincarnation, Romance, Temporary Character Death, mild violence, pining!erik, you just need to hang on tight through a bit of terrible angst in the meanwhile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-02 02:29:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4042312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thacmis/pseuds/InkEros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every one thousand years, two souls are chosen to fight to the death. The victor becomes the millennium's new Grim Reaper. </p><p>Charles and Erik are chosen. They were once lovers.</p><p>Erik remembers their past, but Charles doesn't. Charles wonders why his opponent always looks so broken, but after a few incidents, the memories begin trickling back, and when Charles remembers everything... oh, it's too late.</p><p>(Illustrated by yours truly)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Look

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Другой Кандидат](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4178304) by [Deiko (Gellert)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gellert/pseuds/Deiko)



> When you read this story, just put your beliefs/logic on hold, please. It plays with Time, and what I've done is ostensibly logical, but will make no sense if you think too hard about it, which you shouldn't
> 
> This story is dedicated to everyone who likes a good dose of Pining!Charles (found in the latter half) because gods know there isn't enough of that around here
> 
> Inspirations for this fic: [this tumblr post](http://trobador.tumblr.com/post/111118025285/thebittenword892-starrose17-if-you-think-you), and a dream it reminded me of that I had back in eighth grade. In the dream, a man cursed as the Grim Reaper after his death for being the most sinful soul of his time (he was an executioner during the Witch Hunt and so he was considered by the angels to have "killed" the most people - not fair at all, I know, it was his _job_ ), and a gorgeous blonde man named Jack, who was the most virtuous and charitable man of his time, had to try and kill each other for centuries (it was a curse to be too bad, or too good of a person). However, throughout the endless duel (that took them across the world; they flew past me as I stood on the Great Wall of China - hey, it was a dream), Jack began to grow real fond of the Grim Reaper as a friend, and Grim Reaper - actually a meek, quiet, and peaceful but horribly disfigured man hooded in a tattered cloak - subconsciously developed feelings of love for Jack (the Grim Reaper was gay, but did not know it himself). I can't for the life of me remember where I recorded that dream, so I can't tell you what happened (if I find it, I'll add it here) but I feel like they ended up either breaking the curse, or committing suicide together. 
> 
> I've always wanted to turn that into a coherent story, somehow, and this gives me the opportunity. The tumblr post gave me the right tweak.
> 
> RIGHT ANYWAY so I'll let you get to the actual story (which is only BASED on that dream please don't freak out)

Illustrated by [yours sincerely](http://thacmis.tumblr.com)

***

Every millennium, two souls - two Candidates _-_ are chosen from the pool reaped by the Grim Reaper of the previous era.

One, the most virtuous.

One, the most corrupt.

Both, doomed to a timeless plane of reality until one kills the other.

The defeated perishes into oblivion.

The victorious becomes the new Grim Reaper.

***

And so it is, for millennia upon millennia.

But this time, the Angels make a terrible, terrible mistake.

***

Charles ducks behind a concrete wall, reloading his gun with swift, practiced movements. A thin trail of warmth moves down his cheek from a cut below his left eye, but he pays it no attention.

 _Charles Xavier_.

That is all that he remembers. His name. His name, and the visceral, choking, _programmed_ need to kill the Other Candidate.

He glances around. People, civilians, pets and all organisms of the Real World are frozen in place and in time, allowing the two chosen souls a nearly unlimited supply of weapons and area for the Duel, indefinitely, until one succeeds in killing the other.

Charles cannot allow himself to be defeated.

Not for the sake of glory, or pride, or immortality.

No, Charles knows that the human deaths of every millennium in the Real World reflect the Grim Reaper responsible for that era, and if the Corrupt one wins, it would be a dark, dark age for the world that he once lived in, that he once loved.

Charles can't remember anything from his life as a human, as the memories were erased during his Turning. But he wants his memories back, and that's another reason he needs to kill the Other Candidate. They would be returned to him once he achieves victory.

He also can't remember how long this duel has been going on, but it isn't relevant. In this place, time does not exist. Everything occurs within an infinite moment.

Footsteps sound, approaching the wall. He stops, holding his breath and his gun ready.

Suddenly, a knife slashes through the air in front of him, missing him by half an inch. Charles tumbles away and fires behind him. He hears a hiss, and knows he has made his mark. Without looking around to confirm, Charles slides out his knives from his weapons belt and flings them toward the place where the hiss came from.

The Other Candidate grunts as he barely dodges the knives, clutching at a spot right above the hip where the bullet entered. Wounds in this plane of reality never heals, since time is imaginary. The man wears a black turtleneck and slim khaki pants, looking quite normal and human if he stood as still as all the other frozen figures around them. The casual clothes, however do not cover the many wounds his body sports from all his encounters with Charles so far.

Charles, on the other hand, has barely enough wounds to even call this a proper duel. The Other Candidate is hard to kill, certainly, but his skills seem far below those of Charles, never able to land anything deeper than a paper cut, and so the most probable future appears to be the one where Charles emerges victorious. It is only a matter of time.

Small and lithe, Charles darts toward the Other Candidate and takes out a small handgun, aiming it at his heart. The man twists away, as expected, pulling out his own handgun to knock aside Charles'.

They grapple and exchange blows, a few stray bullets ricocheting off the walls of buildings and the frozen figures around them. Charles successfully hits many of the Other Candidate's weak spots, the spots of previous injuries he inflicted upon the man that is still bleeding and still hurting. The Other Candidate's face is a smooth expressionlessness except for the occasional furrowing of the eyebrows when the strain becomes too much. His indigo eyes and sharp features are handsome, Charles notes, but not enough to overcome Charles' programmed lust for the Other Candidate's death, for the death of the Corrupted, for the continual peaceful existence of the Real World's inhabitants.

A rock appears beneath Charles' foot, and he trips. _Shit_ , he thinks, as scrambles up, but it is too late. His opponent was midway through a body maneuver, and Charles' shoulder is twisted slightly before Charles reaches out to force the two of them into a physical lock. Neither can now move.

Charles looks up to glare at the other man, breathing heavily, but he is startled to find what he sees.

There is this _look_ in the Other Candidate's eyes, piercing into Charles' own.

It lasts for the briefest of moments before the look returns to a more expressionless one, and then the Other Candidate abruptly releases him before darting away into an alley on the side.

This is not the first time Charles has seen that _look_. He has seen it on the Other Candidate's face too many times to count, but Charles is never, ever used to it.

The look has no hatred, no anger, no desire to kill.

He doesn't know what it is, but it stirs up shadows of memories, elusive wisps of emotions that seem to belong to his previous life.

He does know, however, that those emotions don't belong in the Duel.

***

They are fighting once more.

Steel and wood fly in a blur between and around the two figures, moving from street to street with a speed no mortal eyes can follow. No words are exchanged; not even grunts. Only the sharp sounds of clashing swords break the silence.

This time, they are evenly matched, although Charles spends more time attacking, the other defending himself with almost equally matched skill.

The Corrupt must be defeated, Charles vows, as he lungs for another thrust towards the black-clad torso, and is knocked aside by a preempting move from his opponent. He glances at the Other Candidate's face, searching for that _look_ he saw before, and is relieved to find that it is not there, only determination to defend, to win. Good.

They are moving through a street full of glass buildings. Charles wants to use the fragile material to his advantage, but he wonders if his opponent guesses his intentions, because the Other Candidate seems to be leading them right through the middle of the street, far away from the glassed sides.

Rather annoyed, Charles forces more energy into his throws and is able to steer them towards a particularly large pane of glass. The Other Candidate is now more than obvious in his attempts to back away -- Charles wonders if the man had a bad encounter with glass in his human life -- but Charles won't let him. They are now fighting a few feet away from the building. He pulls out two handguns and begins to shoot.

The man looks positively alarmed now. He tries snatch Charles' guns away, but Charles won't let him.

They are both so busy with their own immediate goals -- Charles trying to corner him against the glass wall, the Other Candidate trying to pull them both away and confiscate the bulleted weapons -- that they don't see a loose plank of wood sitting on a bench nearby. Charles' opponent throws a punch, Charles pulls away, and knocks the plank flying into the glass wall behind them--

\--" _NO_!" the man screams, and Charles' eyes widen--

\--and a deafening roar of broken glass shatters around him, shards raining and cutting into his skin. One pierces his shoulder, and Charles cries out, dropping onto his knees as his hands move up instinctively to protect his head.

The rain seems to go on forever. Charles wouldn't be surprised if he lost the Duel just from this.

Then, the sharp rain on his skin abruptly stops, but the sound of falling glass continues. Confused, he opens his eyes and looks up to see the Other Candidate holding the wooden plank over both their heads.

After an eternity, the glass rain finally ends, and the man heaves the plank aside. Charles notices that his hands, which were gripping the sides of the plank, are crossed with bloody cuts from the fallen shards.

The man looks at him, and Charles is shocked again by the raw pain written all over the handsome face. Pain that obviously isn't due to his injuries, because Charles has given him much, much worse wounds without eliciting so much as a frown. The man is panting heavily, looking at Charles with such a hurricane of terrible emotions -- the very same look Charles received right before the glass wall shattered -- that he can do nothing but return the gaze, frozen by surprise and bewilderment.

Charles wants to speak to him, to ask, but the Other Candidate backs away, looking -- looking _guilty_ \-- before disappearing once more into the frozen landscape.

***

_Programmed to kill the Other Candidate._

That is what both of them are here for, and Charles doesn't understand why his Other Candidate acts in the completely opposite way.

It's always Charles seeking him out to fight, Charles on the offensive, Charles driving the Duel. The Other Candidate is forever on the defensive, never giving any blows with truly murderous intent. On the occasions when he does go after Charles, or begin a fight, his movements are half-hearted. It's strange, because the Corrupt should feel equally _programmed_ to kill Charles, the Virtuous, but he obviously does not.

It's slowly beginning to drive Charles insane. His confusion is almost on par with his desire to kill.

 _What is it?_ Charles wants to ask him. _Why do you look at me that way?_

The Other Candidate exudes such _pain_ , it sometimes overrides Charles' need to kill him. And though these _looks_ are too fleeting for Charles to analyze, they still affect him.

And sometime -- _sometimes_ \-- Charles would feel a sharp spike of familiarity, of nostalgia, from that look. Not always, but often enough in the past few fights that Charles knows this isn't simply a product of his imagination. Before he can read into them, though, the Other Candidate always manages to escape, along with his look, and Charles' feeling, having lost its inducer, fades as well.

But he can still feel the echoes, and it eats at him in a way he can't stand.

He wants to understand.

***

Charles twists him by the arm and knocks the knife out of his hand. He pushes them both against the brick wall.

"What's on your mind?" Charles asks.

The man doesn't answer as he twists out of Charles' grip -- he's taller than Charles, after all -- and throws Charles a punch that is easily dodged.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he growls.

"Yes you do," Charles returns, rapidly exchanging blows with the man.

His opponent's eyes darken suspiciously at his questions. "Focus on the Duel."

"My words to you."

"I don't know what you're--"

" _Yes_ , you _do_." Unable to play any longer with the man's stubbornness, Charles grips both shoulders of his Other Candidate and slams his back forcefully against the brick wall again. Their faces are inches apart and the sharp indigo eyes peer intensely into his own, giving him that unsettling feeling of nostalgia once more.

"Yes, you do," Charles repeats, quietly.

The man looks at him, glaring fiercely at first in defiance, but the longer Charles holds the gaze, the more the hostile expression begins to slip, into something like sadness, and despair, and so, so much pain, and for some very, very odd reason, Charles finds himself hurting too. That face, that look, those eyes -- he doesn't know why but he wants to erase the anger behind them.

"There it is," he whispers. He swallows to steady his voice. "Why do you look at me that way?"

The Other Candidate stares at him for a few beats longer, before looking away and giving a mirthless chuckle. Charles is utterly confused, and doesn't release his grip.

"You don't remember," the man says hoarsely, looking back at Charles. There is so much hurt, so much sadness in that beautiful face, that Charles momentarily slips completely off his guard. "Of course you don't. It's not your punishment."


	2. I want to remember

Charles is annoyed.

After that conversation -- the first conversation that they have ever had, in this entire Duel -- the feeling of nostalgia, this time, hasn't gone away.

Something doesn't feel quite _right_.

That is as far as Charles can describe how he currently feels. He can't pinpoint what it is that doesn't feel right, and he can't describe why he feels that way, but there is now just a sort of wrongness every time he fights the Other Candidate, and it is beginning to affect his programmed need to kill that man. He finds himself holding back, but he doesn't know why. The feeling of nostalgia isn't a feeling of fondness, so it is not as though he has _feelings_ for the Other Candidate.

But fighting the Other Candidate… simply feels wrong.

He wonders if he would be feeling this way had he not talked to the other man.

 _You don't remember_.

The words keep echoing around in his mind. He thought that the Turning process erased the human memories of both Souls; did the Angels allow the Corrupt to keep his?

 _It's not your punishment_.

Not his punishment? Charles wasn't aware this situation should have ever been considered a punishment; it is just a task, a responsibility, to ensure that there is a Good Reaper for the next era. Perhaps the Corrupt and the Virtuous Candidates had different Turnings? Not likely, because they were both present when they were Turned from Souls to Candidates, and Charles remembers perfectly clearly that the same ritual was used on the both of them.

But then again, he is the Virtuous, his opponent the Corrupt. Perhaps their souls reacted differently to the ritual.

But…

 _You don't remember_.

The Corrupt remembers something about him that Charles doesn't, and he feels intensely driven, for some reason, to know what that is.

***

"What don't I remember?" Charles grits out as he takes a swipe at the Other Candidate.

They are both covered in wounds by now, though the other man still more so than Charles. Blood trickles and flicks everywhere as they fight and move, and though time doesn’t move in this realm, wounds and fighting still take a toll on their bodies, and both can feel their energy beginning to dwindle. If one of them drops from exhaustion, that one would still be considered defeated, and the other would be victorious.

The man doesn't answer, and from the way he refuses to meet Charles' eyes, it seems that he doesn't ever plan to answer, either.

" _What_ don't I remember?" Charles says again, a bit louder this time, swiping harder.

The man responds with a roundhouse kick that Charles just barely blocks with his forearms.

Charles returns one with his own. "I will keep fighting you until you answer me."

He receives a mirthless grin full of teeth. "As though we have other choices."

"Then I won't let you escape until you answer me."

 _Swish. Clash_.

"That's all you do, isn't it?"

_Slam._

"You're always running away. Always leaving."

The Other Candidate seems to falter at those words. A fleeting look of that pain passes over those sharp features again. Even though his next words are a little too cruel, Charles sees his chance and pushes him one step further.

"You're a _coward_."

The man's face twists in livid fury, and Charles, for a moment, feels genuinely afraid. He has never seen the Other Candidate literally _bleed_ anger from his being and it is almost tangible, choking. Moving faster than even Charles ever could, the man reaches behind him to slide out a large, steel knife that he aims at Charles' neck, and Charles knows that he cannot move out of the way fast enough. He tries, though his heart beats hard and fast, but finds that he is completely frozen, held paralyzed by the pain blazing in the other man's eyes.

He is going to _lose_.

But in that moment, the Other Candidate does something Charles cannot believe he sees.

His opponent _pulls back_.

The knife lodges deep in the wall next to him, a mere centimetre away from the pulse in his throat.

Charles looks up wide-eyed, confused beyond belief, and becomes even more so by the sight that meets him.

The man looks utterly broken.

Charles can see the blown pupils of the other man's eyes, black and deep and full of endless sorrow. He can see the long light lashes that frame the blue, the crease on the skin that could have been smile lines, the rugged edges of his jaw. So familiar. And they are so close, so close together…

… _a large mansion, a chessboard with ivory pieces, a sprawling garden, flowers, the caress of a gentle hand, a_ kiss…

…and the man draws back abruptly, breathing heavily.

"You shouldn't remember," he rasps with difficulty, before he disappears yet again.

Charles falls upon his knees, gasping, having just realized that he has been holding his breath. He swallows, rubbing the part of his neck that could have been pierced by the steel, and shudders. The speed the Other Candidate displayed could easily render all of Charles' fighting skills useless; has his opponent been holding back all along? How much has he been holding back?

Has Charles completely underestimated his opponent?

His feeling of wrongness deepens, even as those flashes of pleasant memories haunt him.

Suddenly, there is a crash somewhere to his right. He darts behind a car and peers out at the location of the noise. There is a slightly moving curtain, as though from a breeze, but there is no breeze in this world. It doesn't seem like it was caused by the Other Candidate, who went in the opposite direction.

When nothing else happens, Charles retreats, and begins to hunt for a weapons store again. His utility belt is empty again.

***

Charles tries goading the Other Candidate again for more information.

But it's not working.

The man seems to know exactly what Charles is pulling, and is -- _smiling_ \-- of all things. Charles would admit that he is handsome were he not so _infuriating._ When Charles says something particularly mean or sharp, he only snorts and continues darting away, making Charles chase him.

"What if I want to remember?" Charles calls.

"You don't. Trust me, you don't."

 _"No,"_ Charles emphasizes his frustration with a stab. "That's my decision, not yours." Is it his imagination, or does the other man seem almost… relaxed?

"That may be, but I'm still the one holding the information."

"What must I do to get it?"

The Other Candidate looks at him thoughtfully, suddenly sombre.

"Nothing," he says.

Charles growls angrily and lungs at him, but he expertly twists out of Charles' trajectory and uses Charles' momentum to pin him onto the sidewalk, both wrists locked in the other man's hands.

No, it definitely isn't Charles' imagination. The man _is_ relaxed, and completely so, because the man is noticeably stronger than Charles has ever felt him be before. The revelation rattles Charles; how much stronger is the Other Candidate?

But Charles has no time to follow that question, because in the next moment, Charles finds the Other Candidate's face inches away from his own. Again, those flashes of a mansion and chess and a _kiss_ sprints through his mind, and Charles involuntarily glances down at the lips of the other man. He realizes he is breathing a little too fast, feeling a little too hot. Something warm uncoils in the pit of his abdomen, and he is aware that his cheeks are heating up, for no particular reason that he can discern.

The Other Candidate's sharp, unforgiving features soften, and Charles' heart skips a beat. The man releases his grip on one of Charles' wrists and, hesitantly, traces a gentle finger down Charles' jawline. A trail of not unpleasant fire follows the line, a phantom burn lingering in the wake of the touch. Charles almost wants to lean into it. The deep indigo eyes glow with fire, with the desire to -- to --

The man moves back and helps him up, a teasing smile on his lips, then leaves him suddenly alone...

Charles feels a little disoriented from the abrupt lack of touch, subconsciously placing his fingers on the spots on his jaw the other man traced.

He feels a bit flustered.

He also feels quite frustrated, for precisely two reasons.

First, he planned to get information, but he forgot his purpose and somehow obtained a caress instead.

Second, the Other Candidate left again, without warning _,_ just like always, when _something_ seemed about to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chappie! 
> 
> because pain is next


	3. Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A relatively longer chapter + illustration near the end. DO NOT PEEK unless you want unpleasant spoilers. But if that's what you want, then go ahead, my pitiful child
> 
> Also, this song for this fic: [Sweet and Simple by Jon Bellion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=HXUaoDl3Rgs)

Charles still doesn't understand the motives behind the Other Candidate's actions, but after having thought about it intensely after the last incident, he thinks he might have a better idea about them now. Or rather, about the lack of them.

It's possible that in his millennium, there wasn't a particularly evil soul, and the most corrupted one wasn't so... corrupt.

It's also possible that the man is so evil, he's manipulating Charles' emotions and planting doubts to weaken Charles' attacks. That would be a terribly evil and psychopathic thing to do, actually, especially for someone who played the role so convincingly, and not at all impossible for someone who is, after all, labeled "the Corrupted". Charles has certainly not been as aggressive as before, and he doesn't feel as intent on killing him as before.

But... Charles feels quite certain that this man isn’t like that.

There has been many times when he could have killed Charles, but didn't. If the man were really playing with Charles' feelings in order to win the Duel... well, he's doing a terrible job sticking to his plan.

Once more, Charles seeks him out, but this time not to fight. He wants to talk. It's dangerous, and insane, and goes completely against the program, but Charles reasons that it’s also completely barbaric to slay a soul so impersonally.

Charles finds him sitting in an empty coffee shop, cleaning the parts of a disassembled gun.

He clears his throat. "Hey," he says.

The man leaps up in surprise and immediately tenses into a fighting stance, knife out and eyes alert.

Charles takes a step back with his hands up. "No, please. I'm -- I'm only here to talk."

Blue eyes narrow suspiciously. "Talk?"

"Yes, talk."

The man exhales. "There isn't much to talk about. Unless you're asking about your memories again, but that’s not something you'll ever get out of me."

Charles rolls his eyes. "No, I think I've got that message by now, although I really wouldn't be against knowing."

"So what do you want?"

"Well," Charles stalls. "There's something strange about you."

The man immediately tenses once again, although his face isn't as suspicious as before. Charles would say he looks almost hopeful, if that weren’t so preposterous.

"Strange?" the man asks carefully.

"You don't feel…" Charles struggles to find the right words. "It almost doesn't seem right, to be fighting you. Don't you feel the same? Is that why you're always pulling back? I know you're capable of much more than what you've been showing me -- you haven't truly wanted to kill me, and I'm also beginning to feel the same about y--"

He must have said something wrong, because in the next moment the man flew at him with a frightening speed that he just barely manages to dodge.

"Don't you dare finish that," the man hisses, face contorted with darkness. "Don't you _dare_ think we're anything beyond enemies. You're supposed to _kill_ me."

Charles feels a little angry too. "Oh, forgive me for opening myself up a little and giving you an advantage that you could have used to win this godforsaken Duel!"

"I don’t need your charity."

"What--?! That wasn't charity! I only wanted to know why--"

" _Don't –”_ the man forces, eyes blazing so intensely with anger and pain that Charles feels his words scamper back down his throat. The man takes a deep, shuddering breath, before continuing on with a much softer, but no less intense, voice. “Don’t you dare believe that I _care_. I don't. Stop letting things get to your head, _Virtuous_. And don't approach again me without intending to kill me."

The man looks... panicked, Charles notes with confusion, a sort of mortified anger flitting across his face before the sharp features harden into an unforgiving scowl. Charles feels... locked out, and it hurt, strangely. Somehow, Charles feels that he has seen that expression before, somewhere, and he knows it means that discussion is no longer an option.

"Enough," the man growls. "No more talking. Kill me. That's what we're here to do."

Charles swallows. The Other Candidate is right. There's really no point in talking; the only thing that would achieve is to make the killing harder.

"All right," he answers at last.

"Let's make this our last one." The other man begins to advance.

"Only if you don't leave."

"I won't," he says.

So, once again, they clash, all metal and bullets and wood. They are a blur that darts all over the landscape. When Charles thrusts, Erik blocks; when Erik swipes, Charles dodges. They are too evenly matched, and that’s not right, because Erik is definitely stronger and more skilled than Charles is.

" _You're -- not -- trying -- hard -- enough_!" The Other Candidate grits through his teeth between each move.

"You're not either," Charles retorts.

"Do you really want a corrupted soul to oversee humanity's deaths?" The man jeers, leaping back to reload his gun in one swift move. "Or do you simply want a way out of this?"

"Excuse me?" Charles bristles. "Of course not!"

"Then show me! You're not acting like that's what you want!"

"This isn't about what I want! This is about the future of our world--"

"Then _show me--_ "

"I _will_ \--"

Suitably riled now, bursting with adrenaline, Charles renews his movements. _This is what should be_ , he thinks as he nearly succeeds in severing his opponent's neck. _For the good of the world, I must do this. This isn't about what I want_.

The Other Candidate is backed into a wall now, cornered on either side by other buildings. Erasing all thought from his mind, Charles plunges a sword forward just as he has done countless times during the Duel while fully expecting the man to dodge it, but…

…but, oh.

The man, this time, _doesn't_ dodge, and Charles is going too fast to pull back in any way.

The man must have known this, and must have planned it, because Charles catches the briefest of smiles on the other man's lips before the sword slides right through the heart of the black-clad chest.

Charles stares.

For a moment, they are both as still as the statues around them. Then, the man pitches forward, and Charles catches him, the weight pushing him backwards. Charles slams against a wall while still supporting the man. Erik's breathing is labored and ragged, and it's clear that he doesn't have much time lef--

Wait. _Wait_.

_Erik?_

How did Charles suddenly know his na--

"Charles…" the man whispers into his neck.

Charles freezes.

"How do you know my…?"

The man doesn't answer.

Charles pushes him back to look at the man's face. His heart's beating too rapidly, his chest seems like it's been ripped apart, and he feels he's made a terrible mistake. Something feels so utterly wrong, so utterly _wrong_.

The man… _sacrificed_ himself.

And he had smiled at Charles right before the final blow.

"W-why…?" Charles chokes out. Something wet slides down his cheeks, and he realizes that he's crying.

Erik -- Charles _knows_ the man's name is Erik -- looks into his eyes, full of -- full of _peace_ , wonder, triumph, sadness… and oh, _love_. His small smile -- so painfully, painfully familiar -- shows a bit of teeth, and Charles somehow knows exactly how and where the skin creases when he smiles like that, exactly where the dimples lead, exactly how it would feel to trace them.

In response to Charles' question, Erik leans in, cups Charles' cheek, and slowly, so gently, kisses him.

 

***

 

_"Let go!" he screams. "You've got to let it go!"_

_The young man gasps and vomits, hands still gripping the rope connected to the sinking ship, but Charles gently pries his fingers loose and embraces his shivering body._

_"Calm your mind," Charles says kindly. "Please. Everything will be all right, my friend."_

_*_

_"Leave me alone," Erik growls. "I don't need your help."_

_"Don't kid yourself," Charles says. "You needed it back there. We all need a little help every now and then," he adds softly._

_Erik is silent. They are on a balcony, overlooking a garden on a bright spring day. A half-played chessboard sits between them. He doesn't answer, and Charles knows he won't, but a moment later a warm hand lies on top of his, and his heart eases a little._

_*_

_They are in the library. Charles hides there, crying._

_Erik comes in with a newspaper, and immediately drops it when he catches sight of his friend._

_"What's wrong?" Erik says, panicked as he rushes over. "Charles, what's happened?"_

_"Nothing," the younger man says, standing up clumsily to leave. "I'm sorry, I'm fi -- I'm sorry. Don't worry, it's all right." He's tugging at his sleeves as if to cover something, but Erik catches the tails of angry red welts dancing around the pale skin. Erik ignores Charles' protests as he takes those arms and pushes the sleeves back. Charles whimpers in pain._

_Erik stares in horror._

_"Who did this?" he asks with barely contained fury._

_Charles tries to tear away, but he's no match for Erik's strength. "I'm fine."_

_"Like hell you are," Erik growls. "Who did this? Why are you going through this alone? Aren't you the one who told me everyone needs a little help?" His anger at the faceless culprit, at Charles' helplessness, at himself for not being trustworthy enough for Charles to confide in him, boils under his skin and is nearly palpable in the air._

_"Erik, please, I don't -- it's not -- it's fine, it's fine. Let go," Charles continues to struggle, but not nearly enough to get away because of the pain, "I'm not -- truly, Erik, you needn't be so… He -- I'm absolutely all right, I've been long used to his tantr -- n-no, I'm fine, so I -- this isn't cause for worry, I'm --"_

_"_ Charles _."_

_Charles goes still, his eyes averted._

_"Charles," Erik says gently, again. "Tell me what's wrong."_

_A few moments of silence._

_Then Charles collapses into Erik's arms, letting his tears and horror and years of pain flow free._

_Erik listens._

_*_

_Sunlight streams in through the windows, a light breeze in the air._

_Billowing, translucent curtains._

_The blankets are warm, the pillows soft. Erik smiles lazily at him, so handsome, so beautiful, and Charles thinks he's the luckiest person in the whole wide world, sighing as the man traces a finger along his jawline, down his throat and his arm, where it lingers and caresses the skin on his wrist. The scars are still visible, but they've healed, and no longer hurt._

_Charles moves closer and buries his face in Erik's neck, and the man holds him tightly, but gently, a steady hand on the small of his back. He hears and feels Erik's hot breath in his hair. Erik murmurs something that he can't hear, but it's a hum of contentment and for Charles, that's enough._

_Erik moves back and tilts Charles' face up, and even though they made blissful love only the night before, Charles still blushes shyly as Erik places a tender kiss on his lips._

_Charles is in love._

_*_

_"Don't do this," Charles pleads._

_Erik looks at him coldly, and Charles' heart breaks a little. There's a sneer on those lips that he's kissed so many times, a sneer that looks out of place on the beautiful face and has never, ever been directed at him._

_"I have to. You never listen, and you never will."_

_"No," Charles cries, rushing ahead and blocking Erik's path. He can't look at the packed bags, the emptied apartment. It's always been a fear at the back of his mind that Erik would finally go away and return to the life Charles found him in, a life that someone so brilliant and beautiful like Erik never deserved and should never have had to experience. They've hurt each other, unwittingly and unwillingly, but Charles knows his mind and soul are now irrevocably intertwined with Erik's and it would kill him to be apart from this man. He's breathing heavily, his heart about to burst. Tears quiver at the edge of his vision._

_Erik is silent, grim and hard, his expression giving nothing away, but all that means is that he's thinking hard and feeling too much. Those sharp, indigo eyes stare intensely into Charles' own, and Charles knows him well enough that, despite that swirl of terrifyingly dark emotions, hidden among the anger, the doubts, the fears, there is still a hint of the compassion and soulful beauty that Charles has fallen so deeply for._

_"Please don't leave," Charles whispers._

_*_

_Spring awakes from its slumber, and the garden is adorned with its pastel colours._

_They sit under the cool shade of a willow tree._

_Charles feels unsure, awkward, shy. He hasn't been this way around Erik since discovering that he loves him._

_Erik, on the other hands, looks completely at peace. He doesn't smile at Charles, but his face is soft. "How have you been?" he asks. Charles has so missed that voice._

_"I've been all right. What about you?"_

_"Well enough, I suppose." Erik pauses. "I heard you're planning to sell the house."_

_"Yes," Charles answers._

_"Why?" Erik asks. "It's a beautiful house, with a rich history. Maybe the memories aren't so good, but it's large enough to open that school you've always dreamed about. You can make new memories to replace the old ones."_

_Charles smiles, and looks at the sprawling mansion in the distance, momentarily appreciating its austere beauty before sighing and looking down at his hands. "Well. Opening a school takes a while. The process takes years. Until then, everyone else who could live with me has moved on. It's much too large for just myself, for one person to live in. I… I would die from sheer loneliness," he tries to joke, but fails to keep the slight tremor out of his voice._

_A light breeze ruffles their hair, a few stray flower petals landing on their heads and clothes like gentle fairies. Charles doesn’t notice this, however, as his ears burn from what he’d just said, what he’d just implied. Charles keeps his eyes averted from Erik and bites his lip, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate and pathetically lonely as he had actually been in the past couple of years._

_Without Erik._

_When Erik doesn’t say anything, his heart sinks. He clears his throat and moves to stand up. “I’ll just – we should probably –”_

_A warm, steady hand catches his wrist, and his breath as well. Charles doesn’t dare look._

_"It doesn't have to be for one person,” Erik says quietly._

_The answer lies turgid in the air between them as Charles tries to understand, and tries believe, what it means. Their silence is filled by the chirps of birds and rustles of trees stretching their waking leaves. He looks at Erik, and Erik is looking back at him, eyes as intense and honest , and beautiful, as ever._

_"Would you?" Charles asks softly, trembling with hope._

_Erik smiles at him. It's so open, so pure, it almost hurts. "Yes."_

_Charles doesn't know what to think. It's too good to be true._

_Erik pulls him back down and leans in for a kiss, cupping Charles' cheek. Charles' breath hitches. It hasn't really been that long, but it feels like forever since he last touched the man._

_"I love you," Erik says._

 

***

 

_Erik_

There is no pain in his chest -- only peace, as Erik moves back and looks into Charles' eyes, which are terrifyingly wide and glistening with tears.

 _Ah,_ Erik thinks. So Charles remembers now.

Well, that was inevitable, Erik supposes. Once your Other Candidate is defeated, all your memories are returned to you, if they were taken away in the first place. Erik always wondered why his own memories weren't erased while Charles' were, and it ate at him and nearly drove him mad in the beginning of the Duel, but he has since accepted that this is probably a special punishment for being the Corrupted.

On top of being forced to kill the one you love.

Once he realized that Charles didn't know him, didn't recognize him, didn't remember anything at all about them, Erik knew that something had to be done about the Duel besides fighting straight for victory. Erik could have easily defeated Charles, and he knew this, but...

No, Erik refuses to live in a world without Charles.

And Charles would be so much better as a Reaper -- a kinder Reaper than Erik could ever be -- and the world needs more of Charles' spirit.

Erik realized he could use Charles' amnesia to his advantage. He allowed Charles to weaken him, and he put up a convincing fight so Charles would try to defeat him without hesitation -- he knew Charles too well and understood that if he presented himself easily, an undefensive opponent, the dear man would hesitate to pull the trigger.

But Erik had miscalculated his own feelings. By dragging out the Duel, his feelings and desire for Charles' love grew more desperate each moment and he couldn't help letting that desperation slip onto his face every once in a while before forcing himself to retreat to calm his mind down. It obviously began to affect Charles as well, and for some time Erik let himself be deluded into thinking this could go on forever, that in this timeless world, Charles' memories might slowly awaken and they could spend a literal eternity together.

Reality came crashing down, however, when Charles approached him asking "to talk". Erik realized in that moment that his delusion to spend their love in this world would be an empty, sad eternity, a haunting shadow of what Erik truly wants. Most especially, _Charles,_ who was full of _life_ , would not be happy in this frozen reality.

He needed to get them out of here, and that meant one of them had to "die". So he goaded Charles into killing him. He riled Charles up so much that Charles thrust too fast and hard to pull back.

And here he is, a sword skewered through his chest, staring into the horrified eyes of his lover.

He can't speak; he can't get enough air to talk, but he wants to answer Charles' questions, _needs_ to tell Charles what he means, so he kisses him.

It's as sweet and tender as he can make it be.

Before Charles can return the kiss, he pulls back. He can't help the memories he can almost see rushing through Charles' mind, and wishes he could block them -- _he knows too well how much it hurts_ , but he can't; he's so weak; but he's accomplished the one thing he needed to do, and he's happy with that.

Erik has little strength left now, so he uses it to give one last, reassuring smile to his beautiful, beautiful lover--

_\--I love you--_

\--and then darkness falls.

***

Charles's entire world implodes onto the one man in his arms.

The light in Erik's eyes is fading, too quickly.

"Erik," Charles whispers. He can't recognize his own voice. "Erik. Erik, Erik, please, Erik, _no…"_

The man is no longer seeing out of his eyes, and Erik's sinking onto his knees, all energy visibly fleeing. The edges of his body are beginning to flake off into ephemeral gold dust that seems to vanish into the air. Erik's eyes are closed.

"No no no no _no_ stop no _please_ \--" Charles blubbers, kneeling down with the body and trying to cover the flaking edges with his hands, to no avail. The dust simply passes through his fingers as though they weren't there. He's crying, sobbing, choking on the massive lump of grief festering in his chest. Still, Erik continues to fade.

And then he's gone.

"Please don't go," he whispers, too late.

Nothing of Erik is left, not even a trace of the gold dust. Charles is looking only at his bare hands now, which are slowly becoming drenched with his tears.

What's the point in living a thousand years if he spends it utterly alone?

Then Charles freezes as he realizes…

He _killed_ him.

 _He killed him_.

" _Oh_ …"

Charles sobs silently into his hands, and falls to the ground.

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

***

 

***

 

There's a crunch in the distance. Charles looks up wearily, eyes swollen and still crying, vaguely wondering if it's the Angels coming to announce his Second Turning for the position of the Grim Reaper.

There's nothing to be seen, but Charles notices that the frozen people in this world are still… frozen.

He remembers being told that as soon as he defeated the Other Candidate, he would be transported out of this world and back into the Souls Realm, where the Second Turning would be held. If he were still in this timeless dimension…

Charles' heart beat quickens.

Could Erik still be alive?!

Charles stands up, swallowing with nervous hope. He doesn't know where to start looking, but as long as he knows Erik's still alive, and that _he didn't kill him_ , then Charles would be okay.

There's a rustle behind the curtains in a restaurant a block away that catches his eye. Charles jogs toward it, curious, a cacophony of emotions fighting for dominance throughout his body. He peers into the windows, but sees nothing worth nothing, and makes for the door.

He's about to open it when someone else inside opens it, and Charles doesn't have the time to emotionally prepare himself when he comes face to face with the culprit.

It's… not Erik.

Grief and guilt overwhelms him once more, but he forces himself to remain calm as he observes the stranger.

The man is almost as tall as Erik, with a similar build, but that is where similarities end. His cheeks are sharp, his features austere and disturbingly dark, a sneer on his thin, colourless lips and a cold glare in pale, pale eyes. They have nothing like Erik's expressivity and character, and beyond the stranger's intimidating appearance, Charles feels an utter _rot_ exuding from the man's presence that makes him sick to his stomach, and Charles blanches as he realizes what that feeling means.

Charles _knows_ who this man is, and he knows it deep in his gut, in his bones.

 _This_ man is the Corrupted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUFFER CHARLES SUFFERRR


	4. Too Late

"What…?" Charles asks, stepping backwards.

The man grins. "Thank you, _Charles_. You've done half the work for me already."

"What are you talking about?" Charles is utterly confused, and feels absolutely horrified for some unknown reason.

"Erik, the one that you've just killed," the man says, and seems to delight in watching Charles flinch, "isn't the Corrupted One, as you’ve probably guessed by now. I brought him along to -- oh, shall we say, _help_ my side of the Duel?"

Charles only stares. He can't think.

"Of course, he didn't know. He was one of the Good Souls, I think. I'm not sure. I just grabbed whoever was nearest me when I was being sent here, and I… took a little vacation while he weakened you."

Charles feels as though ice is running through his veins.

This is so wrong, _so wrong_.

"Pity, he had a good heart," The Corrupted continues, laughing. "I can't believe he thought he really was the Corrupted. He didn't even resist it. And he thought he retained his memories because it was his _punishment_ for being corrupt.”

Oh -- _oh --_

"But good riddance in that sense, don't you think? The world has enough idiots as is --"

“Fuck. You.” Charles whispers, brimming, shaking, violently trembling with rage. " Fuck you. Fuck you. FUCK YOU FUCK YOU _FUCK. YOU."_ Charles screams, lunging at him, guns and swords all out.

He can't remember much about what happens next, so blinded by grief and fury, but it was a long stretch of heavy darkness and cuts and blood and screaming and suffocating sadness, and when he finally comes to, the Corrupted is dead, an ugly mirthless sneer still twisted upon his austere features.

Charles himself isn't going to last very long either; he's beyond tired, he's nearly drained of blood, and he wants to go to where Erik is, wherever he is, but he's completely alone now, waiting for whatever is going to happen next. The tears still flow for his dear lover, guilt bleeding through his being like ink through paper.

There is a flash of white light, and he's suddenly surrounded by faceless figures cloaked and hooded in white, translucent masses of insubstantial wing-like structures hovering behind them, too bright to look at. They reach out towards him, and then the timeless reality crumbles away like gold dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, sorry. And sorry for the wait, I've been busy
> 
> But the next (much longer) chapter will be up today or tomorrow


	5. Missed this, missed you

_Now_

_*_

"Mom, can you please hurry? We're going to be late!"

"Erik, go wait in the car! Take the keys and start it up!"

Erik grumbles but obeys her anyway, dashing out of the door and grabbing their luggage. Next time, he tells himself, he is going to set the alarm an hour earlier. It's not that she's a late sleeper or anything, but no matter how early he wakes her up, she always, _always_ manages to find extra house chores or things that "should be taken care of" just before they need to leave. As mothers do. And then they become inevitably late.

They are flying to Germany in a couple of hours to visit a few relatives, as they usually do every other year. He loves Europe and its rich, artistic, breathtaking history and landscape, so much more elegant and tranquil than America, though the latter has its own different sort of beauty. Erik can't wait to go back there, to his birthplace where so many pleasant memories reside and wait for him. He chose to obtain his doctorate on European history for a reason, after all, and Germany is simply a cornucopia of historical treasures.

He loads the car and climbs into the driver's seat. He starts the car and looks out the window, his fingers tapping on the sill. The lawn is flourishing, he observes, in bright petunias and plump green grass, cultivated by the loving hands of his mother.

A movement at the edge of the lawn catches his eye. He turns to see what it is, and stops short.

There's that ghost again.

Well, he corrects, he _thinks_ it's a ghost. He's not sure. Erik thinks it might also be a hallucination, but he's confident that he's pretty normal in the head, and the vision seems too... real and detailed to be a mental concoction.

The ghost has been around ever since he was five, when his mother and father took him for a vacation to New York. There was a gorgeous old mansion let out as a museum there, and he'd wandered around its vast ornamented halls that seemed to whisper of long, complex, winded memories. There was something nostalgic and familiarly haunting about the place and its sprawling gardens, as though he'd been here before, but he dismissed the feeling as a fantasy and a childish misunderstanding of awe.

He found the ghost in one of the bedrooms, standing by the window. He thought it was a visitor at first, and was about to approach him when the man turned around suddenly and Erik realized he could see _through_ him.

But Erik didn't know what ghosts were at that age, so he wasn’t frightened and didn’t pay much attention to the translucence. He simply stared as the stranger stared back at him, wondering why the pretty man's big blue eyes got bigger and bigger and looked like they were about to cry.

When Erik took a step towards him, wanting to ask if he was okay, the man flinched and... disappeared.

It goes without saying that Erik finally got very, very scared and ran back crying to his parents.

Since then, the ghost seemed to follow him around, appearing here and there a few times each year. He's never told anyone about the ghost, and has long since learned not to approach or show that he notices the ghost's presence, because whenever he does, the ghost promptly disappears. He's always at the edge of Erik's vision, never close enough to talk to but near enough that Erik can see his face. The ghost is beautiful, with blue eyes, red lips and milky freckled skin, and Erik would probably have asked him out if he were a real person.

Every time he accidentally catches the ghost's eye, the ghost always looks so sad and forlorn. Somehow, Erik hurts a little from seeing that sadness. He wants to talk to him, and he's tried, but either the ghost disappears or other people are around.

Erik dreams about him. Extensively. Sometimes he wakes up screaming, sometimes he wakes up crying, and other times, smiling with ineffable joy. The dreams are surprisingly coherent, vivid in its clarity and so real he almost feels like they're memories of his -- _someone else's_ \-- life. By now, Erik can probably narrate the more or less the complete life story of the character he is in those dreams, along with his afterlife, which was spent in some clinically depressing place where time didn't exist. The ghost seems to be the character's lover, and through these dreams, Erik feels like he knows the man inside out.

Erik's not sure if these dreams really are someone else's memories, or, more possibly, if he's got an insane obsession with the ghost that runs deep into his subconscious.

The ghost is standing behind a tree this time, a little like a faded wood nymph wearing a blue cardigan and beige slacks. The bright blue gaze is a little unsettling, but he's never harmed Erik, and he just looks so sad, Erik simply leaves him be.

His mother finally makes her out of the house and totters toward the car. "Erik, dear, sorry about that. The sunlight is just too good today not to use to freshen up the blankets. They're settled on the-- Erik? What are you looking at?"

"Huh? Oh, nothing," he says, breaking his peripheral concentration just as the ghost disappears. "Let's go."

***

On the plane, Erik and his mother settle on comfortably in Economy. The pretty flight attendant is very accommodating, and makes a few attempts at Erik's attention. He's a little flattered -- many single men with doctorates would be -- and wants to ask for her name when a bag falls from the overhead compartment and hits her on the head. Fortunately, it's a small bag, but another, heavier bag from a different compartment of the same isle also falls, this time onto a customer. She gets angrily scolded for not making sure the compartments were locked -- though Erik was sure they were locked, since he helped her checked those himself -- and the poor girl was made to change stations.

"Pity," his mother says sadly. "She seems like such a nice girl."

"I suppose," he mumbles.

Edie smacks him. "Erik! I want my grandchildren! Or," she amends, "at least someone you can rely on. I won't be around forever."

"Well, you know what happens every time I try. Maybe I'm destined to remain single."

"Is that your superstition again? I don't believe it for one second."

Erik sighs. He doesn't want to believe it either, but _things_ have happened and they seemed much too strange and frequent to be coincidental.

He's had a few girlfriends and boyfriends, yes, but they never lasted long, and always left before getting to third base. Various… _things_ … happen whenever he gets too close to someone else. No one got injured, or anything scary and creepy of the sort -- just minor inconveniences that sort of built up and made spending time together with someone a bit of an annoyance that grated on both his and his date’s nerves more than they could tolerate. A car would break down -- though not anywhere dangerous, or one of them would _keep_ getting a cold -- and it usually wasn't Erik, or wine would be knocked over -- often on his dates, or someone would forget to write down the date on their calendar -- _that_ was usually Erik, or… just...little things, but very, very annoying little things.

There's a particularly embarrassing memory of one time when he's about to kiss Raven Darkholme, the beautiful cheerleader of his university, under the shade of an apple tree. The weather was hot and everything seemed be washed in bright, lazy yellow, and he was cupping her smooth cheeks, about to kiss her pretty pink lips when an apple fell right between their faces. As if that weren't enough, another one fell with frighteningly perfect aim and fractured his nose.

It's almost like there's a jealous spirit hanging around Erik.

The face of the sad ghost pops randomly into Erik's head, and he considers the possibility, but then he shakes to clear it. That's being even more ridiculous now. He doesn't even know if the ghost were _real._

Maybe they _were_ all just coincidences.

Still, he stays away from relationships now, though he accepts and asks for the occasional date. His lack of a love life doesn't bother him as much as he thinks it should. Erik wasn't particularly interested in any of them, anyway.

"Only time will tell," he says to his mother to placate his mother. She doesn't look satisfied, but spares him any more reproach.

***

In his aunt's house, Erik has finished unpacking his luggage, and sits down in an armchair by the window, hooking his leg on the coffee table as he picks up a stray novel lying on the window sill. It's an old German text, one that he's read a few times before, and he's about a few chapters in, when he notices in the corner of his eye the silhouette of the ghost a few rooms away from his opened door.

That's two appearances in a single week. The ghost only visits a few times a year, so it's a little unusual.

It's unusual enough that Erik, exhausted from the jetlag, decides to speak to him. There's no one in the house to hear, and this may be the only chance he'll ever get.

"If there is something you'd like me to know, please come and tell me," he calls, eyes still trained on his book, feeling a little silly. "You've been stalking me for the past two decades of my life. It's common courtesy to at least say hello."

The ghost, to his relief, doesn't disappear. After several excruciating moments of stillness, the ghost, hesitantly, pads over into his room. Erik continues looking down at his book, pretending to be nonchalant, but his heart hammers in his chest as the ghost sits down at the edge of the bed, across from where Erik is sitting.

Very, very carefully, so as not to cause the ghost to disappear like he did when he was five, Erik puts the book down, and looks up at the ghost.

It's the first time he's been so close to him. Erik is surprised to see him more solid-looking than before; he can hardly see through the body. But even more surprisingly, even though Erik has seen him up close in his dreams, the ghost is… breathtakingly beautiful. He is already beautiful at a distance, but up close, there is no creature out there that can compare. And, somehow, to his shock, Erik _knows every single line, texture, freckle, and patch of skin on this man._

"Who are you?" he asks, his throat dry.

The man's eyes dim at the question. He doesn't speak.

"Can you talk?" Erik asks. "Are you a ghost?"

The bright red lips curl up into a small sad smile and parts to huff out a soft laugh. "No, my friend," he replies. His voice is beautiful as well, and washes Erik in a wave of inexplicable nostalgia.

"Then…?"

"I'm… _oh_ , Erik," the man says, his eyes suddenly imploring and a little too bright. "I shouldn't have the right to speak to you. I'm so sorry." He looks away and begins to fade.

" _WAIT,"_ Erik says loudly, temper abruptly flaring. "You don't get to leave _again_. What do you mean you don't have the right to speak to me? _I_ decided to talk to you first, didn't I?"

The man stops and meets his eyes again.

"Who are you?" Erik tries again, very gently this time. Strange, warm feelings have begun welling up in his chest, and he feels the urge to protect this man, comfort this man, give this man everything he has. "I'm always thinking about you. I… You're always in my dreams. I've dreamed of an entire lifetime with you, and of a time afterwards. Just last night, your name finally came to me, and it's…"

The man's eyes have been widening throughout Erik's speech, and right now, it's so full of nervous hope that Erik is actually afraid of getting the name wrong.

"…Charles Xavier. A past owner of the mansion that I visited twenty two years ago."

The man keeps staring at him with an expression of disbelief and awe. "Yes," he whispers. A single tear trails down his cheek.

Erik stands up slowly to sit on the bed right next to Charles. The man turns to him, looking afraid and shy, clenched tightly into himself. Erik reaches out hesitantly to wipe away the tear, and is shocked to find that he can _touch_ Charles, who is undoubtedly warm, and familiar, and _here_.

"But I could see through you," Erik remarks, bewildered.

"I'm the Grim Reaper," Charles says.

The silence could have amplified a pin drop.

"The _what_?"

Charles looks nervous and depressed again. "I thought you said you remember."

"…I do," Erik confirms slowly. "I remember that part, but I've gone for a long time thinking I made those dreams up. It's odd to hear that they're real."

The man looks searchingly into Erik's face, blue eyes wide with apprehension. "And… and you're not angry?"

Erik knows exactly what he's talking about, and feels an intense rush of protective affection. He smiles, and Charles' breath seems to catch at the sight of it. "It wasn't your fault," he says softly.

Charles is trembling, looking about to cry again. Erik hushes him and gently takes him into his arms, and when Charles doesn't resist, Erik pulls them both back down onto the bed, hugging him tightly. Oh, he's missed this, and he's never known how much he's missed this, so, so much. Charles fits so well in his chest, warm face buried in his neck, clinging desperately onto Erik's shirt. Erik breathes into the soft brown hair and presses a kiss there, heart clenching as he hears Charles' quiet whimper.

"It wasn't your fault," he repeats.

Erik tilts Charles' face up and kisses the parted red lips, softly and sweetly, licking along the familiar curves and plump flesh. Charles moans quietly into it, and it's full of lost years, pining, mourning, loving and blissful. They're out of breath, and they reluctantly pull apart, but only as far as they need to without adding unnecessary distance.

Charles' eyes are a little red as they look up. "God, I've missed you," he whispers.

Erik smiles and nuzzles into his lover's face.

"I've missed you too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this? 
> 
> Next chapter will be epilogue, plus artwork :)
> 
> (if some parts are confusing or weird and the language is stumbly, sincere apologies. I actually wrote most of this on bus rides to school for fun, for stress-relief, so I just didn't really... care. If you get the general gist of this story that's more than I can hope for lol. Thank you for reading so far!)


	6. Epilogue

"If you're the Grim Reaper, shouldn't you be out there… reaping death, something?"

"My existence isn't exactly… linear. I can be at multiple places at once."

Erik stares at the ceiling in disbelief. "Was I kissing you while you were collecting people dying?" he asks in horror.

Charles laughs, a beautiful, reverberating sound. "No, darling, my being is a sort of a… net, that catches deaths. I can't really explain it. But I'm -- me, here -- I'm still as real as you are, right now. Just... trust me."

"I do," he says automatically.

Charles stills, and then hugs him tightly again. "I'm so sorry, Erik, I'm so sorry" he cries softly into Erik's neck.

"Stop it," Erik says. "How many times do I need to tell you _? It wasn't your fault_. I made you do it, and we both didn't know who the real one was. You don’t need to keep apologizing."

Charles sniffs. "All right."

"There." Comfortable silence. Then, "Mein Gott. Did I just fuck Death?"

A bloated silence fills the room, before Charles bursts out laughing.

"I suppose you did, in a way," he chuckles. "And I loved it."

"Are there any consequences for this? Are we even allowed? Doesn’t this go against some laws?"

"Laws? Why do you think there would be laws?"

"I don't know. If Death starts favouring people, then wouldn't those people get unfairly longer lives? Or shorter lives?"

Charles is quiet for a few moments. "Unfortunately, I don't control when people die. I'm only here as a sort of net, a beacon, for souls to find their way to their next place."

"Ah." Erik hums. "Would my mother be able to see you? She's been egging me to get a partner for some time."

"I know. And no, she wouldn't be able to see me. Only the reincarnated can."

"Oh. I was reincarnated…?" That is a surreal thought.

"Yes," Charles says, smiling brightly up at him, his love for Erik completely open on his face, taking Erik's breath away. "The Angels were rather horrified about the mistake they allowed to happen, so they reconstructed your soul before it was recycled to make new souls, and gave you another go. I'm so lucky I found you again. I thought I'd lost you forever." Charles' voice grew hoarse near the end, and his arms around Erik tightens.

Erik runs a gentle hand through Charles' hair. "I'm glad you found me again. Although, technically, I think I found you."

"Semantics, darling."

"So my mother won't be able to see you at all? She's going to be so disappointed."

"I'm terribly sorry," Charles says sadly.

Erik kisses his forehead. "It's all right, liebling. I'll just hire a human partner that she can see and mollify her that way. No big deal."

Charles pulls back, looking very put-out and _hurt_.

"I'm joking," Erik says.

Charles huffs, still unhappy, but settles back into Erik's chest.

"I won't be able to, anyway," Erik continues, rubbing soothing circles onto his lover's back. "Every time I find someone, _things_ happen and we always end up being unable to work anything out. I'm almost sure I'm cursed." He chuckles. "Not with you though. Funny. Maybe reincarnation does something to my luck with _human_ relationships."

Charles looks guilty, eyes darting down and his cheeks flushing. "Um."

Erik stares.

"No, you can't be serious," he says incredulously. "That _was_ you?"

"No -- well, I mean -- y-yes. _But_!" Charles protests, completely red now. "None of it was on purpose! I never really _did_ any of it! It's just, when I wish that something wouldn't happen, or if I dislike something, I find that my wish itself is enough to steer reality my way. It's terrible, and I feel bad, Erik, I truly do, those poor girls and boys who were so in love with you, but I couldn't stand it, and I wanted you so bad, and -- _oh_ \--"

Erik shuts him up with a kiss. "God, Charles," he breathes hotly. "You're rather dense for a smart person."

"What do you--?" Charles splutters, blushing to the roots of his hair.

"Charles. Do I _look_ I care about that right now? About being thwarted from dating anyone besides you?"

"Well--"

"Charles, _it's not your fault_. It's hilarious." Erik grins. "So you were _that_ bothered to see me with someone else?"

"Well, of course I was," Charles huffs. "How would you feel if you saw me about to kiss someone else?"

Erik thinks about it, and a flare of intense jealousy cuts through his chest. He nods sagely. "Yes, I'd be angry too."

Charles snuggles into Erik's chest.

It's quiet. There's no sound except for their calm, deep breathing, rhythmic and in sync. Rays of muted sunlight trickle into the room, illuminating a few wisps of dust floating in the air like some sort of summer snow.

"Can we be together?" Erik asks quietly after a while, playing with Charles' hair.

"There's always a way," Charles answers softly, with a small smile, utterly at peace for the moment.

***

 

\---

The End.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Angels, upon seeing the strength of their love, guilty that they had an indirect hand in tearing the lovers apart by mistake, took pity on them and granted the two their wish.
> 
> For a thousand more years, Charles continued his duties as the Grim Reaper, while Erik was given an extended life and allowed to stay by Charles' side during the entire time, helping when he could. They were blissful, never apart, and they didn't think they could have been happier had the misfortunes of their previous lives not occurred.
> 
> When Charles was relieved from his duties and it was time for the era of a new Grim Reaper, he and Erik were sent to the Blessed Lands, where they happily spent the rest of eternity together.
> 
> \---
> 
> [Another illustration for this fic, not posted here.](http://thacmis.tumblr.com/post/127568508971/he-cant-remember-much-about-what-happens-next)
> 
> Thank you for reading. I really hope you liked this!


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